


How Zevran got his armour, and other tales

by diabla616



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabla616/pseuds/diabla616
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of different events surrounding Zevran and Alistair's night caught in the storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Zevran got his armour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moontyger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/gifts).
  * Inspired by [One Dark and Snowy Night...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/332636) by [Moontyger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger). 



\---=+=---

_"I was fascinated by the Dalish,"_ Zevran informs him, during a rare moment of peace in their camp. The Warden listens closely, entertained by both Zevran's strange, exotic accent, and his tale of an attempt to join a Dalish clan. He wonders, though still somewhat distracted by _Zevran_ himself, which clan it was. Would it have been his own perhaps?

He's surprised at first, then pleased by Zevran's interest in his culture. Somehow it is flattering to imagine this handsome, worldly elf being intrigued, even obsessed by such a simple lifestyle. It is for this reason and no other, he tells himself, that he spends so much time in conversation with Zevran.  
Zevran, for his part is happy to talk. Sarcastic, self-deprecating and prone to using the most _embarrassing_ of innuendo though he may be, each conversation finds him opening up further to the Warden.

This is perhaps why, weeks later in the Brecilian forest, he finds himself searching through Master Varathorn's inventory for a set of traditional Dalish armour in a size which will fit Zevran. A fitting gift for one so fascinated by his elvhen roots.  
The armour he finds is perfect. Soft, supple and crafted in the unique way of the Dalish it will withstand the fiercest of spells.  
Zevran is delighted, as he had expected; _"I shall wear it immediately my dear Warden"_

What he hasn't expected, hasn't allowed himself to expect, is the way the armour looks on Zevran.  
Zevran is attractive, that much the Warden _has_ allowed himself to admit: Silky blonde hair, tanned skin and that _fantastic_ accent are a devastating combination, difficult enough to resist alone. 

When Zevran emerges from his tent in the evening, dressed in his new armour and little else the Warden cannot keep from staring. The thin strips of leather cling to Zevran's trim figure, emphasising every move he makes. As he approaches the fire the flickers of light catch in his braids, making them appear golden. 

Zevran winks at him, and the spell is broken. He knows better than to involve himself with one such as this. Though he cannot prevent his eyes from drifting to the small leather skirt that Zevran wears from time to time.  
And if Alistair is watching too, safely in the shadows across the fire, no one notices this.

\---=+=---


	2. A briefing

\---=+=---

The Frostback mountains are their biggest challenge yet. 

"We will split into pairs, or small groups," the Warden tells them, "so we have some chance of completing our tasks here before the Archdemon razes the entire country to dust"

The decision meets with mixed reactions; Leliana is sceptical and Morrigan disapproving, while Sten frowns and remarks in a bored tone that _none_ of their tasks here are necessary to their purpose. The Warden ignores them all.  
Zevran says nothing. It is not his place, and besides, he is not averse to getting to know any of his companions a little _better._

The Warden does not speak to Zevran immediately, but instead waits until the others are assigned to their tasks, and out of earshot:  
"Take care of him Zev," he says, more blunt than usual, and with a tone which allows for no misunderstanding, no idle flirtations this time.

Zevran bows his head, accepting his own task; "as you wish."   
He is, after all, the Warden's to command, even if the Warden in question does often seem reluctant to enforce this.

A nod in response to his own, almost an afterthought as the Warden's handsome face remains expressionless _– is our leader a little distracted? -_ Zevran thinks, then, distracted or no, the Warden returns his attention to Zevran. "Thank you. Even if he doesn't see it yet, Alistair's the best hope this country has for a fair rule."

Zevran glances over to where Alistair is currently sat with his fingers inside his ears to better ignore Morrigan's taunts and frowns, "I too do not see it."

The smile he receives in return is quick and sharp, much like the Warden himself: "You will."

\---=+=---


	3. Truth and lies

\---=+=---

Zevran is cold.  
No, it is not enough; Zevran is _freezing,_ reluctantly preparing to die of frostbite in this horrible frozen wasteland which passes for a country.

The heavy snow makes it impossible to see much of his surroundings, though this at least might be a blessing of sorts. After all the Frostback Mountains are hardly the best Ferelden has to offer. This is if Ferelden can indeed be said to offer _anything_ ; at this point Zevran is beginning to doubt such a possibility.

Alistair curses loudly as he stumbles on the rocks well-hidden directly in their path.   
"We are lost," Zevran informs him.  
"I _know ___," Alistair shoots him a dark look, then continues to glare morosely at the offending rocks. "It's not my fault, I _told_ him I was the worst choice for this mission."

Ah, Alistair, ever the petulant child. So quick to place the blame elsewhere, or kick it away from his own feet at least.

Though it would be entertaining to continue his teasing of Alistair here, away from the keen eyes of the Warden, Zevran is reminded of their situation by a blast of frigid air along the most _sensitive_ parts of his anatomy. It is suddenly imperative that they find shelter. He informs Alistair of this immediately, taking care to detail exactly _which_ sensitive parts of his anatomy are suffering most (Alistair, of course, takes this with his usual grace.)

Eventually, more perhaps by luck than any judgement on their part, they stumble across a house. Alistair does not protest when they enter the house, and Zevran is thankful indeed that his finely-tuned chantry sensibilities will allow him this trespass.

Not that is much of a trespass, it seems; the house is deserted, and appears to have been so for a long time. There is no heat left in the walls, and these, sturdy though they are, offer little in the way of shelter from the storm still raging outside.

Eventually they are reduced to burning what little furniture remains in the house. Again Alistair offers no resistance, this time even assisting Zevran in his tasks.   
Given a little time Alistair produces a fire from the mangled pieces of wood they find, and Zevran relaxes a little once he feels the first flickers of heat from it. Perhaps they have avoided death by freezing here after all.

As they huddle closer to the fire Alistair turns to him with a frown, "so, why did you stay? You didn't have to, we both know _that_ , and you're hardly ..equipped for this mission."

Why indeed, though Zevran will not reveal his orders to Alistair: He is fairly certain that secrecy was implicit in the Warden's instructions anyway. 

"It should be obvious, _amico mio_. After all I am an opportunist. You said as much yourself."

"I didn't mean-"Alistair protests, though Zevran interrupts before he can continue along that track.  
"It is fine, my friend. You are correct. Any opportunity to spend the night with a handsome man." Zevran punctuates this with a wink aimed at Alistair. 

It works, briefly. Alistair blushes, momentarily lost for words then glares at him, "and your real reason?"

The two are nothing alike, but in that moment Zevran sees Rinna in Alistair's place so clearly; blushing, though pleased by his flattery instead of this suspicion. Though he wants anything but to hear them again Zevran cannot help her words running through his head, remembering how she had laughed as she said them; _"non ti credo Zev, dí la verità!"_  
Remembering then how he had thrown those same words back in her face not weeks afterwards. 

The memory is as painful as ever, still. In this moment more than any other Zevran misses the warmth of Antiva, misses Rinna's lovely smile and the trust, misplaced though it was, which she gave so easily. 

"Zev?" Honest concern is all he can see in Alistair's eyes now, none of the discomfort of earlier, or the suspicion of weeks previous. 

"It is nothing. Merely a memory, and they can do us no harm, no?"

\---=+=---


	4. A crow's flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may be bothered by such things, this chapter contains a brief mention of not-entirely-consensual situations, though it is very brief.

\---=+=---

As the light outside the hut begins to fade, casting shadows across the cold stone floor, Alistair drops to his knees to arrange their bedrolls. Zevran's spirits lift a little at this sight, and indeed at the thought of sharing a bed with Alistair, no matter how much coaxing the man may need for him to do so.

Zevran settles quickly, warmed by the heat from Alistair's bare chest, and pleased by the situation he has found himself in.   
Despite Alistair's protests Zevran's flirtatious words were no lie - Alistair is indeed a handsome man, and Zevran very much not opposed to spending the night with him like this. 

It takes mere seconds for Zevran to be comfortable and prepared for sleep. Alistair however seems uncomfortable, shifting restlessly time and time again. 

After the third time he is jostled awake by a stray elbow Zevran can take this no longer,   
"Alistair," he snaps, "the floor is not likely to get any more comfortable tonight."

Alistair glares at him; "that's fine for you to say, _you're_ used to this," he accuses.

Zevran favours him with a sunny smile in response. "Of course. Although there _was_ usually more sex involved when I shared my bed before."   
When Alistair's glare does not waver he relents a little and adds lightly, "a crow cannot always choose his bedmates, or indeed if he even wishes to share."

That Alistair has caught his meaning is clear in the sudden stiffness of his shoulders, the quick hiss of indrawn breath. Zevran quirks an eyebrow in amusement at this overreaction; "you thought a life in the crows was all fun and games, _amico_?"

"No, no of course not," Alistair protests, but the way his hand scrubs quickly at his face belies this, "it's just. _Maker_ Zev, that's tough."

"It is in the past now, no?" Though Zevran shifts in Alistair's embrace now, uncomfortable not with his own admission, but with the level of Alistair's reaction.   
It takes him hours before he finally falls into some semblance of sleep.

Perhaps it is the novelty of an admission he has never before had occasion to make, or perhaps it is Alistair's genuine concern about someone for whom Zevran understands he does not truly care; either way the tides have shifted somewhat for Zevran here, tonight; this playful teasing of Alistair which he has always enjoyed has become something more, almost flirtatious somehow. No longer the hunt, but a true pursuit perhaps.

And if it is not concluded tonight, then so be it. Seduction is a fine art, after all, and Zevran nothing if not _un' artista._

\---=+=---


End file.
